


Armistice

by nauticalparamour



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:21:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22481743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalparamour/pseuds/nauticalparamour
Summary: After the attack at Malfoy Manor, Hermione is taken away by Fenrir. She can imagine what he wants with her, but his actions towards her while she convalesces leave her confused. Will she be able to go back to her life as Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, or will her life be completely changed? Oneshot. Complete!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fenrir Greyback
Comments: 15
Kudos: 180





	Armistice

Seeing Dobby, Harry and Ron emerge from the dungeons had filled Hermione with a tiny glimmer of hope that things were actually going to work out. That they were all going to make it out of this scrape alive, just like they always did. She was sure being pressed against Bellatrix Lestrange couldn’t crush that tiny glimmer, not even with Bellatrix’s cursed knife pressed at her neck.

And then her hope had come crashing down, like an antique crystal chandelier.

Bellatrix had shoved her out of the way when Dobby dropped the fixture on them and fighting broke out. It was her chance to get free...but Hermione had stumbled, weak from being tortured. She found herself being held upright by Fenrir Greyback, a prospect nearly as terrifying as being left to Bellatrix.

Before it was over, Dobby had gathered all of her friends, knowing that he was the only way they could get out of there. And then Harry was looking at her with an apology on his lips, and her hope completely sunk. They were leaving her behind and she knew that they had to.

She crumpled, only supported by Fenrir’s huge arm. She knew that she was going to die.

Her world was reduced to nothingness. She didn’t want to know what they were talking about and focused on the rushing of blood in her ears. Then, she felt the sickening pull of side-along apparition and she was confused, but didn’t lift her head. There was no hope for her any longer.

Hermione was thrown down onto a pile of animal furs, and she looked up at Fenrir Greyback, his eyes feral and lustful as he looked down at her body. Hermione couldn’t find it in her heart to struggle. She just wanted it to be over quickly. She knew that she wasn’t going to be getting out of this one. He hadn’t made it a secret of what he wanted to do with her. She doubted her death would be quick or painless, but she didn’t have the energy to struggle against him, to struggle for her life.

“I’ve finally got you now, mudblood,” he said with a grin, licking his lips. “How I’ve longed for this day.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She didn’t even have tears left to cry, she was so broken. At least Harry and Ron got away, she thought, trying not to feel sorry for herself.

Fenrir kicked her in the side, annoyed that she hadn’t even made a noise except for the quick exhalation of breath when he dropped her. “Did you hear me Granger? You’re mine now. Mine to do _whatever_ I want with.”

Hermione turned her head, slowly, to look at his bright blue eyes and dark, scraggly hair. “Well, get on with it then,” she said

The large werewolf looked shocked and annoyed at her apathy. He snarled. “Why aren’t you struggling? Why won’t you fight me?” His little pet was no fun to him if she’d lost the fiery spirit that had attracted him in the first place. If she gave up, he didn’t want her. “Don’t you know what I could do to you?”

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t care. I just want this to be over,” she said quietly, her eyes closed, waiting for the inevitable. Not brave, just hopeless.

Fenrir snarled again, before stomping away. He knew that she had been through a lot, and he was sure that with a bit of rest and healing she would be back in fighting shape. Then he would be able to dominate her mind and body, until all that was left in her life was him.

* * *

The scent of blood overwhelmed Fenrir’s sensitive nose whenever he walked into the cave where he was keeping Hermione Granger. He hadn’t even bothered to put up any wards, hoping that she might try to make a run for it. He remained disappointed when she didn’t try to escape once. Instead, she lay curled in a ball, unmoving like a baby doe left behind by its mother.

The blood though...it was concerning. He had seen what Bellatrix had done to _his_ witch, carving a slur into her arm, branding her forever. The cuts weren’t healing properly, and he’d so hate to have his little prize dying from an infected cut before he even had the chance to enjoy her.m properly.

Kneeling down next to her, he grabbed her arm, looking at the fresh red that decorated the childlike letters. He stared at Hermione’s face. She didn’t even flinch.

Tentatively sticking out his tongue, he lapped against her skin, knowing that his saliva would help the cut heal. After all, dogs didn’t lick their wounds for nothing.

For a brief, glorious moment, he felt her muscles tense, and heard her heart beat faster. She was afraid and it was intoxicating. She tried to grab her arm away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

Fenrir’s voice was husky, but he didn’t let go of her, enjoying her feeble struggle. “Healing your wounds,” he murmured over her flesh. He wanted to say more to her, about how he needed her healthy so that he could overpower her, dominate her. He needed her to fight _back_.

But this was the first time that she’d shown any concern for her personal safety in the three days she’d been with him, and he didn’t want it to slip away. He resumed his work, pleased when the blood flow was coming to a stop.

Hermione lay there, slowly relaxing under his attentions. Fenrir’s grip on her arm was surprisingly gentle, but firm. It was oddly comforting to know that he had her. It should repulse her to have his tongue on her skin, lapping up her blood, but it was the first human contact she’d had since the attack and she found herself overwhelmed.

He _cared_ about her, and though Hermione knew it was for his own enjoyment, it brought tears to her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks in fat droplets to wet the furs she was laid out on. He was tender and comforting and for a moment she thought it would nice to have the large man hold her.

By the time he was finished, the cut was healing, slowly. Hermione was quick to remind herself what Fenrir wanted her for, and tucked her arm back against her body, apathetic once again. She wished that he would just get it over with and kill her already.

* * *

A week had passed since Fenrir had brought his prize home, and to his immense disappointment, she continued to lay amongst his furs, lifeless. It was enough to make him insane with anger, knowing the fiery woman she’d once been. All the fight had been striped from her by Bellatrix Lestrange, and he promised himself that he would kill that woman for touching what was his.

Still, he held out hope that she was just in shock as to what had happened to her, left to fend for herself by her friends. He could empathize with the cold sting of that betrayal, though he was sure the girl was too kindhearted to see it for what it was. They left her to certain death.

Staring at her still body, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of her chest in time with her even breaths, Fenrir knew then that he just needed to do something to _snap_ her out of this state. Smiling to himself, he knew just the thing.

Picking her up as though she weighed nothing, he threw her over his shoulder, annoyed that she just hung there, not trying to kick or struggle at all. She didn’t ask where he was taking her. She didn’t do anything.

That was until he tossed her into the cold stream where he bathed infrequently.

He knew that the water would be icy cold this time in April, having just recently thawed. He could not stop the hearty laugh at her flailing limbs and sputtering breaths as she tried to regain her bearings and her footing. Now she was paying attention.

When she looked at him, he could see the anger in her brown eyes. She practically snarled at him, so feral that it sent a pulse of heat straight to his cock. _This_ was the Hermione Granger he desired.

“What did you do that for?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

Fenrir continued to laugh. “You have felt sorry for yourself long enough. It was time to bring you back to yourself.” He was happy to see that he was right about the surprisingly cold temperature bringing her personality back out again.

Hermione finally stood, her body shivering from the frigid water. His laugh died on his lips when he saw the way that her thin shirt clung to every curve of her body, pert nipples obvious through the fabric, and tiny waist on display. _This_ was the Hermione Granger he desired.

Swallowing, he stepped towards her, completely unaware of the ways that she affected him, the power she had over him, should she choose to wield it. He picked her up in a fluid motion, again throwing her over his shoulder. This time he felt her tiny fists pelt his back as she insisted on being put down. A smile formed on his face.

Arriving back at the little cave, he deposited her by the firepit, and began digging around his meager belongings, looking for clothes she might wear. He usually didn’t wear much, preferring to feel the elements on his bare skin, but he eventually found a large black cloak, lined with soft fabric, and a tunic that would fully cover her.

“Put these on, you’ll get sick,” he commanded, turning his attention towards building a small fire. She wouldn’t be any good to him dead.

“You won’t...try to take advantage of me?” she asked, tentatively, her voice stuttering from the cold.

“I told you, I don’t want you unless you fight back,” he answered, giving her a feral grin. “So, I’d like you to get better and not be sick.”

Hermione knitted her eyebrows together, trying to understand his words. Eventually, he heard the rustle of clothing as her wet clothes fell in a heap and she put on _his_ clothes. He didn’t even need to prompt her to come sit next to him by the raging fire, eager to get warmed up.

She didn’t try to run away, and instead, let her head drop to his shoulder. It was an unexpected gesture, only possible because of her exhaustion, but it made Fenrir’s heart ache at the sweetness.

* * *

Hermione had been living with Fenrir and his pack for just over a week, and she was quietly observing, trying to plan her next best course of action. She still could not figure out why he was leaving her alone for the most part...it was obvious to her what he wanted from her, so she just wanted to get it over with, but he hadn’t touched her once.

Really, he’d been unexpectedly...sweet with her. He was taking care of her, making sure she ate now that her appetite had returned after being thrown into a river. She supposed that wasn’t so sweet. Looking down at her arm, she was surprised to see that the cuts that Bellatrix had inflicted on her were fading away to silvery marks after he’d helped heal the wounds.

Shaking her head, she crept to the edge of the cave, wanting to see what was going on. She hadn’t had any interaction with any of the other werewolves and she was curious to see what pack life was like. The way Remus described it had seemed awful, but to her it seemed almost like a little comune.

It wasn’t difficult to locate him amongst the rest of them, his hulking form making him easily the largest of everyone that was there. He was chasing around small children, play growling while they giggled and ran away from him. Hermione found herself smiling, before shaking her head.

These children wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for him. Had these children so quickly forgotten that he’d savaged them? That he was the cause of their plight? A sick feeling settled in her stomach and she returned to her little bed. It was boring, but...

Fenrir came into the cave not long afterwards, carrying a strip of meat. “What’s wrong?” he groused, making Hermione tense, knowing that he genuinely wanted to know.

“Why do you take children?” she asked, unwilling to meet his surprisingly blue eyes, a reminder that even he had been a normal wizard once before. She couldn’t even say what he really did to them...bite them.

He dropped to the floor next to her and began making a small fire. He knew that Hermione preferred her meat cooked, though he’d rather it remained raw. “Easier. They embrace the change and it makes them happier. They grow up, learning the truth about wizarding culture,” he explained patiently. 

“You would force them into a lifetime of painful transformations just to teach them to hate wizards? They don’t have a choice in this, Fenrir. It’s wrong.” she countered, shrilly. 

“The transformations aren’t painful at all if you just embrace them,” Fenrir said, a serious look on his face. “You’ve been getting all your information from one source, and he’s so full of self hatred that he’s given you incorrect information. If Lupin had come and joined my pack, he’d be a very different man today.”

Hermione never thought of it that way. The books were all so very clearly biased that Remus seemed so reasonable. She supposed that it was possible that he had his own bias and she’d never considered it. “Still, you aren’t giving them a choice,” she floundered.

_That_ made Fenrir angry. “I wasn’t given a choice either, but I’ve embraced my life anyway. Why should I have to be alone, hunted because of what I am?” he snarled at her. “The children here are happy. You should be happy too, I haven’t bit you yet.”

Hermione had considered that, but she had imagined that his plans for her had never been to turn her into a werewolf. Still, it silenced her. She supposed that she didn’t understand why he hadn’t bit her yet. Obviously, he wasn’t a mindless animal like many people thought. “Why haven’t you?” she asked him softly.

The fight left him, but then he just seemed tired. “I’m done talking about this,” he answered. He stood and left the cave, leaving Hermione sitting by herself.

Their discussion had been enlightening. Her heart ached knowing that Fenrir was partially made by the intense loneliness that he’d felt, but it didn’t make what he did the right thing. Still, Hermione understood why he did it. She supposed it was the only option that he saw, that turning people into werewolves was the only way to get them to stay.

* * *

Hermione knew it was ridiculous, but she did feel bad about upsetting Fenrir. He barely spoke to her, just dropping off bits of food when he remembered she might need to eat. It was true that she thought him a heartless monster, but his words reminded her that he was alone in this world, except for his pack.

The wizarding world was never welcoming of werewolves and it wasn’t right, but she still didn’t agree with his methods. But, it was clear to her that he was lonely and angry, something she could sympathize with.

He’d been so cold to her in the last two days that she thought he might want to be rid of her, but he still hadn’t hurt her, even when it would have been easy to do so. It came as a complete surprise when a few Death Eaters showed up, she half expected to shove her out of the den and into their waiting arms.

“We’ve come for the mudblood, Greyback,” the one called Travers demanded, wand gripped tightly in hand but not pointed. She recognized the other two as Snatchers, and she was surprised that such a meager force had been sent to collect her. Perhaps they thought after a week in Fenrir’s care, she would be meek or eager to leave him.

“Not a chance, Travers. She’s mine,” Fenrir snarled, claiming her. “I was promised her and I won’t be giving her up.”

Hermione was surprised when he stepped in front of her, shielding her from the Death Eater’s view. It was oddly comforting. She realized it was not the first time she felt utterly _safe_ with the werewolf, catching her completely by surprise.

Travers cursed first, and Hermione was surprised to see Fenrir wielding a wand, putting up quite the defense. She hadn’t thought that he was much of a dueler, and while he wasn’t very creative, he had quite the raw magical force to take on the three wizards, beating them back while he moved towards them.

In the blink of an eye, he sent a killing curse at one of the Snatchers, leaving the man dead in the clearing. Travers looked dumbfounded, and scowled at Fenrir, before making a threat. “The Dark Lord will be hearing about this Greyback. We’ll be seeing each other again,” he promised. With the telltale crack of apparition Travers and the remaining snatcher were popping out of sight.

Hermione watched as Fenrir’s shoulders sagged in apparent relief, and he turned around to face her. The intensity of feeling in his blue eyes caught Hermione off guard and she gasped aloud.

He advanced towards her, ushering her back in the cave. “I won’t let them get ahold of you, Hermione,” he promised, feral and wild. “You’re mine.”

She knew it was crazy, but her heart beat a little bit faster at the promise.

* * *

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair and grimaced at the greasiness that made the strands hang limp, without any of their usual curl. Sniffing Fenrir’s oversized shirt, she knew that she smelled less than pleasant as well. How a man like her captor, who had such an excellent sense of smell, could stand to be around her was beyond her.

Then again, he didn’t really bathe that often either.

“Fenrir,” she said quietly, immediately gaining his attention. “I need a bath,” she said insistently, trying not to react to the smirk on his face.

Clearly he was amused with her conundrum. “Are you sure? I love the smell of your natural scent.” He wrapped his large arms in an embrace around her body, muscles bunching, before shoving his nose against her neck and taking a deep breath.

An excited thrill raced up and down Hermione’s spine at his possessive words and his breath on her neck. She shivered, wondering just when she began reacting to him this way.

Since the Death Eaters had been by, he’d become almost affectionate with her, and Hermione wondered when his plans for her changed. First, she was positive that he’d wanted to rape her. Or eat her. Now, she wasn’t so sure what he wanted with her. He’d made it clear that she was his...but, his how?

She wished that her body wouldn’t relax against his large form, but he made her feel so safe that she couldn’t help it. Even worse, she’d come to enjoy the little touches and looks, and how his body felt pressed against hers.

Her own face was pressed against his chest, bits of chest hair visible out of the top of his too small shirt. He was definitely all man, she thought traitorously, and willed herself not to respond, but still found herself pressing her legs together tightly. “Yes, I’m sure,” she answered. 

Fenrir sighed, but agreed to take her to the stream, grabbing a bit of soap and a small cloth. Hermione was surprised that he even _had_ soap, but she was grateful for it nonetheless. Standing on the banks of the river, she waited for him to turn around. “Turn around. I don’t want you to watch me undressing,” she said meekly.

A broad smile split his face. “Oh, I don’t think you are in any position to make demands of me. Either you let me watch, or you don’t get a bath,” he answered, defiantly.

Hermione stepped from one foot to the other, trying to decide what she wanted. Finally, the desire to be clean won out in combination with resignation of her fate. She grimaced, but gripped the too large shirt and pulled it up over her body. Reaching behind her, she let her bra fall to the forest floor, before hooking her fingers into the sides of her knickers and dropping them as well.

She didn’t have to turn around to feel the heat of his gaze on her bare flesh. She made quick work of the distance to the stream and hopped in, only turning around once she was completely submerged in the icy water. Wetting the cloth and soap, she quickly covered her body with bubbles, working to get every nook and cranny.

A splash to her left surprised her, and she was frozen, seeing a rather naked Fenrir in the stream as well. He walked over to her, showing off the firm and sculpted muscle of his chest and abdomen, before he plucked the soap from her hand. Hermione couldn’t help but stare up at him. He looked strong and fierce and he was far more attractive to her than she would have expected.

She could feel his eyes rove over her curves, taking in her small breasts and tight nipples. He clearly liked what he saw. It was intoxicating to her to have such a powerful man so enthralled by her...oh, she wished he wouldn’t stare at her like that, but she couldn’t stop staring back either.

Soon, the water became too cold to remain in and they both returned to the shore, Hermione putting back on her dirty clothes. It felt a bit gross, in her opinion, but she had no other options if she didn’t want to walk through camp naked, so it would have to do. They walked back to the den, Hermione running her fingers through her tangled curls, working to get all of the knots out.

By the time they got back, Hermione wondered why she hadn’t even tried to run away from Fenrir. She had every opportunity, but instead she decided to just do what he told her to. She tried to tell herself that she just didn’t want to give into what Fenrir wanted, to run so that he could just chase her down and kill her. But, she wasn’t even sure of what Fenrir wanted anymore.

She felt like a traitor when she realized that she didn’t _want_ to leave. Being with Fenrir made her feel safe and protected, and for the first time in years she wasn’t constantly thinking about the war. It was easy and she was tired of running.

Fenrir sat down next to the fire pit and began constructing the fire, pushing his wet hair out of his face again and again. It made Hermione smile to see the intimidating werewolf struggle with his long hair. “Let me help you with that,” she said quietly, standing behind him and tentatively burying her fingers in his hair.

The brown strands were streaked with gray and hung just past his shoulders. It was considerably tangled, but when Hermione found a snag, she gently moved her fingers through it, slowly working it out.

Fenrir loved the feeling of her hands on his scalp. It was soothing and affectionate...a kind of closeness that he hadn’t shared with a human since he was a boy. He found himself practically purring under her ministrations, completely distracted from his task.

“Fenrir? Why do you...work with the Death Eaters when they treat you so terribly?” she asked, cautiously. It was something that she’d never been able to figure out, even when they were on opposite sides of the war.

He huffed, her questioning breaking him from the pleasurable sensation of her hands in his hair, her body pressed so closely against his. “They are the best of a bad bunch,” he finally said, his eyebrows knitted together as he examined the thought. “All wizards detest werewolves, they are afraid of us. But the Dark Lord has promised us some boons if we work with them. Even if he wouldn’t ever dream of branding me with his silly little mark.”

“But you could work for yourself. Surely that must upset you, knowing that the Dark Lord is willing to use you, but he can’t respect you,” Hermione said thoughtfully, surprised by the parallels between her life as a muggleborn and Fenrir’s as a werewolf.

“No matter what I do, I will be an outcast,” Fenrir said, eyes watching the fire move, leaning towards the small woman that was giving him more comfort than she could possibly know. “At least with the Dark Lord, I won’t be hunted.”

Hermione frowned, sitting next to him, subconsciously leaning towards him. “I suppose it's similar being muggleborn. No matter what I do, no matter how I prove myself or how smart I am, no matter how many people call me the brightest witch of my age, I will never be accepted by wizarding society.” She picked up a stick and threw it on the fire.

She was surprised that of all the people in the wizarding world, Fenrir Grayback might be the person who best understood her situation in life. Harry was muggle-raised, but his celebrity and his being a half-blood afforded him a certain status that she could never hope to achieve. None of her friends understood.

Fenrir _did_ understand and for the first time he felt bad for the girl. She was so strong, but everyone was trying to break her down, including him. He decided then that even though he wanted to possess her, he would never hold her back.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head, and Hermione relaxed against his form.

Hermione knew she was blushing, feeling his lips on her skin and wondered, briefly, what it would be like to kiss him on the lips.

* * *

The affection that their bath had created had only grown in the week afterwards and Hermione found herself really opening up to Fenrir. She felt as though she understood the troubled werewolf better than she expected. She didn’t agree with the things that he did, but she could see his reasoning.

He was hurt and lonely, and despite his massive size, he could be sweet and kind. Just to her, though.

He touched her more now, and to her surprise, she didn’t shy away from it, instead pressing against him. He spent more time in the den with her, and Hermione found herself giggling at his hyper-masculine antics, wanting to show her some of his value, she was sure. Only she wasn’t swayed by someone who could show off their wood chopping skills, though she wouldn’t deny that she’d enjoyed ogling him. He was strongly built, all rippling muscle, and he seemed almost allergic to wearing a shirt.

The full moon had come and gone the night before and he had warded her into the cave, just in case any of the pack came after her, though he told her that they would be roaming that night. It was distasteful to think about, so she pushed the thought from her mind. 

She’d been unable to sleep, hearing the howling and worrying about Fenrir, thinking about the pain he was likely to be in the next morning, remembering the savage cuts that Remus typically came home with. To her surprise, he’d strolled into the cave, whistling to himself.

Hermione had been unable to stop herself from jumping up from her blankets, and running her hands over his skin, looking for any trace of an injury, her long shirt pulling up her thighs as she did so.

Fenrir caught her hands in one of his, before pulling her body against his. He pressed his lips against hers fiercely. Hermione couldn’t hold back the gasp of shock as she felt his hard cock pressed up against her belly, allowing him to press his tongue into her mouth. Hermione felt her head spinning with the sensation.

Breaking away, he nuzzled his face against her hair and neck, breathing in deeply. “Careful, my blood is still up from the moon and you smell good enough to eat,” he explained, punctuating his words with a nip at her neck.

Hermione bit back a moan. She removed her hands from his grasp, but didn’t pull away from him. “I just want to make sure you aren’t injured,” she said insistently, running her hands up and down the muscular expanse of exposed chest.

He hissed, and Hermione worried that she’d hurt him, but a look up into his blue eyes showed her the truth. It was a noise of pleasure, and the look in his eyes showed that he was on the edge of madness. “Not hurt. If you don’t stop touching me, I might just take you right here.” He pressed his erection against her again, groaning at the sensation.

Hermione bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. His naughty promise had sent heat between her legs and she wondered if she didn’t want him to stop. Before she knew it, she was telling him just the same. “What if I don’t want to stop touching you?” 

Fenrir’s lips were on hers in an instant, and he pushed her back until she dropped onto the furs that she slept in. His mouth was hot, all-consuming and Hermione found herself opening her mouth up to receive him, wanting to tangle her tongue against his, pushing back with as much passion as he showed her.

She briefly wondered when she’d begun to want Fenrir, but it was pushed away when his hands snaked up under the thin fabric of her shirt, pulling it up to expose her body to him, until he was forced to break their kiss so that he might remove it from her. He’d seen her before, so he didn’t take the time to linger on her form, instead focused on getting her naked, to press himself completely against him.

Hermione threw her head back and moaned when he pressed his hot lips against her neck and reached behind her to remove her bra. Every now and then, he nipped at her flesh with his fangs, and Hermione could feel the power in his jaws, holding back. She knew it should frighten her, but it just sent a gush of wetness between her thighs. 

He feasted on her exposed breasts and Hermione fought to touch every inch of him that she could get her hands on. He sucked on each pink tipped breast, using his large hands to pull down her knickers. Once she was completely bare to him, he ran one long finger between her legs, hissing at the wetness.

Grabbing her by the hips, he pushed her up the makeshift bed, only to bury his face between her legs, taking a deep breath of her natural scent before licking insistently on the bud at the top of her sex. Hermione had limited experience with sex, but she certainly had never experienced anything like this. He lapped against her, his tongue insistent and hot and before she knew it, she was thrown into orgasm, while he held her hips down as she desperately grinded against him.

Smiling down at her with a grin that should have scared her, Fenrir licked his lips, clearly having enjoyed what he did to her, making her come undone on his tongue. Gripping her hips, he pulled at her until she was flipping over, propped up on her knees and hands, and then he was shoving down his too tight pants, freeing himself and rubbing against her arse.

Hermione shivered, knowing what was coming next, knowing that she should stop it now, but not able to say the words because the truth was...she didn’t _want_ to stop it. “Wanted you for so long now witch,” Fenrir growled to her, rubbing his cock against her wet lips, coating himself with her essence before steadying his tip against her slit, and slowly pushing forward, hissing as she embraced him.

He surged forward, unwilling to be separated from her for any longer, until he was completely engulfed. Hermione couldn’t think of any other time when she’d felt so right with a lover. He fit her completely and the feel of his hot hands on his hips had her wiggling back against him, eager to continue.

“Dreamt about this, witch. You are _mine_ ,” he promised her, said with such finality that Hermione let out a low whimper. Sensing that she wanted him to move, he began thrusting against her, enjoying the feel of walls grabbing at him, not wanting him to go.

Her moans were intoxicating, her scent surrounded him, and Fenrir knew that he could never forget this moment if he tried. She moved back against him with every thrust, working in tandem to bring them both pleasure.

Hermione had never been taken this way, and she knew on some base level that she should hate it, that it was animalistic and wrong, but he felt so right and was able to get so deep inside her that she couldn’t help but love it. She felt his finger search out her clit and swirl against it in insistent circles. Her orgasm rushed over her suddenly, her arms giving out. She pressed her face into the blankets to mask her own feral scream of pleasure.

Fenrir shared no such embarrassment and roared out his satisfaction, spilling himself inside of her, his hips pumping a few more times. He felt alive, his blood rushing through his veins and his witch beneath him.

Smiling, he collapsed against the furs before pulling Hermione tightly against him, bringing a hand up to cup her breast. He hadn’t felt so content in years.

And for the first time, Fenrir slept in the same bed as Hermione.

* * *

The pair lived in bliss for another two weeks before Fenrir got the missive summoning him for the final battle. It was a harsh reality check for Hermione, who remembered her friends were still out there, probably wondering what on Earth had happened to her. It had been nice to live with Fenrir, safe and removed from the fighting, and she wondered when she’d become so comfortable with him, so complacent. She should be embarrassed that she hadn’t even tried to escape once, but she wasn’t.

As much as she’d enjoyed being possessed by Fenrir -- a highly pleasurable endeavor -- she knew that she had to fight for her own sake. “Please, Fenrir, you can’t leave me here,” she begged him. “If you feel anything for me at all, you will let me go.”

He whined like a wounded dog, and held her body close to his, not wanting her to get hurt, not wanting her to be taken away from him. “I don’t want to lose you,” he revealed quietly, his emotions on display for the first time.

Still, Hermione knew that she needed to fight for muggleborns, for werewolves, to live in a world free of oppression. Fenrir’s kind would never be accepted by the Dark Lord’s forces. “You won’t lose me. I am very formidable.”

“If you aren’t killed, then when your side wins, they will take you away from me,” Fenrir said, unable to meet the gaze of her eyes. She could hear a whine low in his throat. She was surprised to learn that she didn’t want to be separated from Fenrir.

“I won’t let them, Fenrir,” she promised, though she wasn’t sure that she could promise such a thing. “Please, I need to do this. If you don’t let me go, I will grow to resent you.” She knew that was true, and she was certain he did as well. She couldn’t continue to live in this fairytale world where she lived happily ever after with Fenrir while her friends were dying.

He nodded sharply, resigned to her decision. He would let her go and fight Voldemort’s forces, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t there to protect her.

* * *

When the final curse rebounded back on Voldemort, Fenrir and Hermione were in the courtyard. He watched in satisfaction as the Dark Lord finally disintegrated into ash, and Potter’s forces immediately began rejoicing, even Hermione.

She turned to face him, and seemingly unconcerned with any audience that she might have, wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest. He could smell the salty sweet of her tears and he longed to wipe them from her face with his tongue.

Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, encircling her and celebrating that it was finally over. Although, he did not feel the same joy that she did, knowing that it was likely to signal the end of their relationship.

“Get your hands off her,” a low rumbling voice warned.

Fenrir was unsurprised to see Lupin standing in front of him, his green eyes showing the rage simmering beneath the surface. Not wanting to cause an issue between Hermione and her friends, he reluctantly let her go, but was surprised to see that Hermione’s arms lingered around him.

She turned, pressed up against his side and looked at Remus confused. “It’s okay Remus. I’m fine.” She said, insistently, confidently.

That was until one of the Weasleys came up behind him and pulled Hermione away, wrapping his arms around her. Fenrir couldn’t stop the low growl in his throat, seeing his hands all over his witch. “It’s okay, Hermione,” the boy said, even as Hermione struggled to get away from him. “You’re safe now.”

Hermione shoved him back finally. “I am perfectly safe with Fenrir! He protected me all throughout the battle.” It was true. He spent most of his time trailing her around, killing people who tried to kill her. He’d even gotten a few nasty curses in on Bellatrix before the woman got away. He’d berated her for marking _his witch_.

Perhaps hearing the conversation, Potter eventually trotted over to where his friends were arguing. “Merlin! Hermione am I glad to see you.” He said looking at her with sad, guilty eyes. “We can keep you safe now.” He trained his wand on Fenrir.

She let out a noise of frustration. “I don’t need _protecting_ from Fenrir. I love him!” The words slipped out of her mouth before she knew it, catching her by surprise and sending her friends into a frenzy. She didn’t miss the contented purr from the large werewolf, though. They’d never said that to each other before, but Hermione knew in her heart that it was true.

“It's just Stockholm Syndrome. People fall in love with their attackers all the time. Let us help you,” Harry said, pleaded with her really. Hermione looked around and saw the looks of disgust on Remus and Ron’s faces, for her confession of love to a savage monster like Fenrir.

“It’s not Stockholm Syndrome and Fenrir never attacked me,” Hermione insisted, though she knew that he probably would have when they were first together. Things had changed now. “And you don’t get a say in that. You left me to die,” she said, her feelings of betrayal bubbling up.

“I didn’t want to, Hermione,” Harry told her. His guilt had clearly been eating away at him. “But I didn’t have any other option.”

“Don’t you know what he is? What he’s done?” Remus roared. “He attacks children. He attacked me. He took any chance at a normal life away from me when I was just four years old!”

Hermione shut her eyes tightly, feeling tears form in her eyes. It was true that she knew what kind of person Fenrir was, but she’d seen another side of him too. She knew that he could be savage, a monster even, but she couldn’t find it in her to care, when she’d seen the gentle way that he had with his pack. The affectionate way that he had with her.

Hermione shook her head, just wanting to go back to the den, but knowing that she would be hunted there. “Just, please. Let me go with Fenrir. We will leave and never come back. If you have ever been my friend, you won’t look for me,” she begged, knowing that she could never return to life as Hermione Granger, best friend of Harry Potter, not after everything that happened.

She turned her back on them, and grabbed Fenrir’s large hand in her own, so that she could apparate them away.

* * *

It had taken Harry nearly five years to find her. He wanted to head Hermione’s request to leave her alone and not look for her, but she was his best friend, had been since they were eleven, and he couldn’t turn his back on her. He’d failed her enough when they were at Malfoy Manor.

He’d found their original den easily enough but that was abandoned. Then, he’d followed their trail all over Europe, looking for any news of children that had been savaged, but he could find nothing that fit Fenrir’s modus operandi.

A passing clue from a wizarding village near the Black Forest had Harry setting off for Germany, deep into the forest, and when he followed the winding path, he had almost given up. But then, he caught the shimmering of a notice-me-not charm. He was bounding off the trail towards the small cabin then, tendrils of smoke coming from the chimney.

“Hermione!” he called out as he ran, catching sight of the familiar messy brown curls. She was a bit older, her curves more pronounced, and then he noticed the curve of a child. She pressed her hand against her baby bump, clearly surprised to see him. Harry skidded to a halt.

“Harry,” she said simply, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

A boy stepped out from behind him, and Harry thought he must be nearly four. He was already showing signs of being a large boy, likely taking after his father. “Mummy, who is this?” he asked, annoyed to have his mother’s attention captured by someone else.

“This is mummy’s friend from Hogwarts, Ragnar,” she said, pushing curly brown hair from her child’s eyes, bright blue and curious.

Harry sighed, faced with just how much time had passed. Hermione was a mother now, and about to become one again if the swell of her stomach was to be believed.

Fenrir Greyback, looking almost domesticated in properly fitting clothes came around from the back of the house, carrying chopped wood. “Is everything alright?” he asked, clearly on edge from the intruder. Ragnar, seeing his father upset, took a similar stance in front of Hermione.

“Everything’s fine, Fenrir. Harry has just stopped by for an unexpected visit. Would you like to join us inside? I’ve made rabbit stew,” Hermione said with a blush. She knew that this life was not one that many had imagined for her, but it was the one she chose.

Harry nodded gratefully. “I’ve been looking for you since you left Hermione. I’m sorry that I didn’t...listen to your side of the story. Tensions were so high, and Remus...” he trailed off, eyeing Fenrir warily, as he sat at the table, spoon dwarfed by the size of his hand. “I want you to come back to London. We’ve passed laws in London, to accept werewolves as full citizens...”

He trailed off again. His intention was for when Hermione inevitably became a werewolf she could still be accepted. Hermione smiled at his thoughtfulness, but knew that he did it for selfish reasons. “I am not a werewolf, Harry,” she said softly.

“After all this time?” Harry asked, incredulously.

“I do have self control, Potter,” Fenrir said, annoyed. Hermione wasn’t a full werewolf, but she did have some wolfish qualities, as he did have some trouble not giving her little nibbles during sex.

Hermione put a hand on her husband’s to calm him. “We’ve discussed it, but with no one to watch the children during the full moon...well, I have no plans to make the change until they can look after themselves.”

“And the boy?” Harry gestured to Ragnar, who did not like being talked about as though he wasn’t there.

“You know that lycanthropy cannot be passed onto the child of a werewolf genetically,” she chided him. “I can’t return to England, Harry. Fenrir wouldn’t be accepted there, and if I can’t have him with me, then there is nothing there for me.”

Harry knew that was true. There were too many bad memories from the wars. He was upset that he wouldn’t be getting his friend back. “Are you happy here?” he asked. If he thought for a minute that Fenrir was mistreating her, he would take her back kicking and screaming. “Does he still...attack people?”

Hermione smiled. “Very happy.” It was true that it wasn’t a life she’d imagined for herself, but it was one where she could be herself, and one where she was fully accepted. She frowned a bit. “His pack is more stable here. We don’t come into contact with many humans.” She knew that there was little that could stop the instinct to bite someone who came across a transformed werewolf, but he didn’t actively look for people any more, now that he wasn’t so lonely.

Harry watched as Fenrir looked at his wife with obvious pride. The look in his blue eyes had Harry feeling content, able to leave her here in his care. He didn’t understand it, but they obviously loved each other very much.

“I’ll write to you,” he offered, not ready to let her go.

“I would like that,” she agreed.

Convinced that she was okay, Harry turned and left Hermione, knowing that she was safe and loved.


End file.
